


Regret

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maedhros stops in Laketown on his way to the mountain, and perhaps a slimy little weasel is now all he can have.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He says, “Thank you,” and genuinely means it for the accommodations, though they’re meager and pitiful. The man squints his beady eyes the way his wary master did, but Maedhros does nothing to dissuade this distrust. He didn’t give his name. He was accepted as a dignitary merely for his armour. His ears have been too mangled to distinguish him from Men, at least to these ill-enlightened creatures. The splendor that he wears earns him the Master’s favour and temporary lodgings but no more, and he’s sure to say, “I will not stay long.”

The greasy little man—Alfrid, the Master called him—nods curtly as though he would expect nothing else. Doubtless Maedhros’ haggard form looks more like a traveling beggar than an Elven lord. Alfrid pushes the door to the hovel open and marches inside. Maedhros follows as Alfrid lights the lamps. The wooden floor inside is as icy as the streets of Laketown. It pains him to see how far Men have fallen. When he shuts the door, the draft shuts off, but not the cold

Alfrid gestures vaguely around and grunts, “Bedroom’s up there, washroom over there. Kitchen’s got some fish stocked—courtesy of the Master.” _Fish_. Given the state of the town, Maedhros isn’t holding his breath for fruits and vegetables. He just hopes the dwarves he journeys to see have fared better, not that he ever got much in the way of greens when he dined with them. Hopefully they’ll be better off than _this_.

From the way Alfrid scowls, this wretched house is better than his own. He looks jealously around as he comes back towards the door, and Maedhros steps aside to let him pass, but Alfrid pauses there and glances over. Maedhros has already set his sword on the table and is peeling the rest of the armour away. He can feel Alfrid eyeing what’s left of his right wrist but doesn’t acknowledge it. To these forsaken mortals, it must look like he hasn’t the skills to defend himself, when in truth, they could barely conceive of the evil that ravaged him so. He waits for Alfrid to leave.

Instead, when Maedhros is down to just his tunic and breeches and aching bones, Alfrid steps closer to him and hisses, “You won’t be getting much around here in the way of relief, with looks like that, but I’m a reasonable man... perhaps I could let you please _me_ , free of charge, on behalf of the Master’s favour and the like.”

Maedhros stiffens and turns, brows knit together, to scrutinize the bent man at his side. At first, he thinks it a cruel joke, but then he sees the way Alfrid licks his lips and runs a lewd gaze from Maedhros’ boots up to his face, lingering the most along the curve of his ass. The servants of Maedhros’ past would not _dare_ to look at him that way.

But that was from a time when he was young and still beautiful, when his copper hair reached, unblemished, to his waist, and his ears were as elegantly tipped as all his brothers, both hands complete and skillful. Once, he would’ve had his pick of suitors from any he might desire. And now...

Now this ugly mortal, as foul on the outside as in, is the only thing that’s paid him a second look since his release from Mandos’ halls. He’s only been permitted this one short trip, no aid to this time and no true substance. He hadn’t expected to experience pleasures of the flesh, and in truth, hasn’t done so in centuries. 

Alfrid gives a raunchy wink. The single brow across his forehead worsens the gesture. It sickens Maedhros to think this all he can garner. 

And at the same time... it strikes him as vaguely _just_. He ruined his soul long ago. He committed so many foul deeds, such atrocities, and his scar-matted skin reflects that. Perhaps he deserves no better. 

He opens his dry mouth, unsure of his response, and Alfrid grins crooked teeth and mutters, voice slick as scales, “You mustn’t have a copper to your name with uncut hair that long—tell you what, since I pity you, perhaps I’ll give you a few coins. _If_ you please me well enough.”

 _A few coins_. Fëanor would skewer this man in a heartbeat. Fingon would be appalled. Maedhros...

 _Maedhros misses the touch of the living._ The dichotomy rages inside him. His own self-loathing whispers to accept.

Alfrid coos, “Here, give us a kiss,” and leans forward, lips puckered. His posture’s repugnant. But Maedhros struggles.

And Maedhros proves more wounded than revolted. He does bend down. He hesitates but still brushes his lips over Alfrid’s cold but tantalizingly soft ones. He’s too tall for Alfrid to surge back properly, though Alfrid tries. A shiver runs down Maedhros’ spine.

He pulls back with his face in a grimace, but Alfrid still smirks. He says, “I’ll come back later—have to see the Master. Leave the door to your bedroom open, eh? I don’t want to have to stumble about for it in the dark.” Then he has the gal to twist and slap Maedhros’ ass. Maedhros stiffens but is too shocked to respond.

Alfrid finally leaves, eyeing Maedhros up the whole way, until the door is finally closed again and Maedhros is wretchedly alone. He fingers the golden ribbon tied around his waist like a sash and wonders absently if he should barricade the front door.

But he ultimately leaves it free, and his bedroom door open at night, when he loses himself again to fire and dreams of better days.


End file.
